An Affair of Vengeance (27 page)

“No,” she repeated more urgently. She gripped his head with both hands. “Your success isn’t a moral failure. You’re not your brother, and you don’t have to make up for what he’s done.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you knew the truth.”

“The truth about what?”

“About how your parents died. My brother killed them.” He looked up, finally. His eyes were hard and dry. “What do you think of me now?”

The words didn’t process immediately. In her head, her grief was connected to Kral, not to some abstract man she’d only recently learned existed. “Your brother killed my parents? That’s…unlikely.”

“I found a string of documents that lead me to believe he was responsible for a car bomb in France at the same time you told me your parents were killed. You might have seen them, too, on your search through the files last night.”

She tried to speak clearly. Her throat wasn’t cooperating, but instead wanted to close upon itself. “Sounds circumstantial to me.”

“Don’t hide from the truth. There aren’t so many car bombings in markets in Western Europe that we can’t see two and two and total it up to four.”

“But it’s…”

“Incredibly likely.” He half-rose, bringing his face level with hers. “My brother was Kral’s raging bull. Who else would he have asked to kill someone?”

She couldn’t think of another excuse. She’d seen the picture in the file. It confirmed what she had long suspected—that Kral was involved with the murder. And if McCrea’s brother was Kral’s hit man, then maybe she was sitting next to the brother of the man who murdered her parents.

What did that mean? Did it change anything? Her body struggled to find answers, sorting through the flood of chemicals and nerve signals produced by the news. Pain, rage, guilt, grief. But underneath the turmoil, the rational part of her mind informed her that there wasn’t enough evidence to convict Aaron yet. Questions remained.

“I’ll agree that Kral’s the bastard behind it all,” she said. “But what proof do you have that your brother planted the bomb?”

“An order he placed for the right amount of Semtex that December. An e-mail he wrote to Kral telling him that he was going to take care of a problem they couldn’t ignore any longer. And a picture of the resulting explosion.”

“You have all that evidence in hand?”

“No, but you might. In that camera you had in your shoe last night. What file did you copy?”

“December, eight years ago.”

“That’s the one.”

“Wait. You found the camera? You went through my things?”

“I did. I told you I’m not a good man.”

“Damn it!” She jumped off the bed and knocked him from the platform, poking him hard in the chest with her index finger. “That’s not true, so stop saying it! I won’t hear it. I don’t agree with you. You’re hard, determined, and a little bit bewildered, but you’re a good man, fighting for the right reasons. I know you are.”

“It doesn’t matter what you think.”

“It
does
matter what I think.” She got nose to nose with him, possible now that he stood a step below her. “I’m your partner. So you didn’t trust me enough and decided to rifle through my
things. I understand. I get it. You don’t trust easily, and I forgive you. You hear me? I forgive you. So, your brother killed my parents. I forgive…”

She stopped, wanted to go on, but couldn’t decide what her next words should be. Who was left to forgive? McCrea wasn’t at fault for her parents’ deaths. She felt no urge to hurt him or make him pay. She was angry at him, yes, but not for any part he had played in their death. She was mad because he didn’t understand who he was. He didn’t understand that he owed no debt for his brother’s sins. He didn’t understand that he was a good man, and that he had no genetic burden to bear.

It wasn’t him she needed to forgive, but he needed forgiveness, nonetheless.

“Who?” His voice cracked. She knew from the sound that he expected her to say his name. “Who do you forgive?”

“You.”

He nodded, closed his eyes.

“And Aaron,” she continued. “And Kral. Everyone.” Her vision clouded. It didn’t have to mean she didn’t want justice. She still did. But maybe she didn’t require blood for blood. Maybe the cycle of violence could end with her—and McCrea—behaving nobly and justly, instead of like a pair of vigilantes.

She wasn’t sure if she was ready to forgive yet, but she
wanted
to forgive, and wasn’t that the first step? If she could release her anger, then the man standing in front of her had to let it go, too. She had more claim on the pain than he did. He’d have no right to keep it if she let it go.

She looked him straight in the eyes. “I forgive everyone. Especially you. And I don’t give you permission to martyr yourself on my behalf.”

“Call it what you will, I’m not letting this monster claim another member of your family. If you get out, you can take those pictures to SOCA. You’ll have enough for a search warrant on that camera, if not for an arrest.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I’m not leaving my partner behind. And there’s not enough there to get a warrant. People have tried before.”

“We’ve got more than anyone else ever has. Now we each have a job to do. Yours is getting those pictures to SOCA or the CIA. Mine is making sure you get out safely.” He stepped closer to her, inches away now. “Let me do this. Let me clear my name.”

“There’s nothing to clear! You aren’t responsible for what your brother did. How many times do I have to tell you that?” Tears made her vision myopic. She brushed at her eyes. “I forgive you for whatever it is you think you’ve done. Don’t you hear me? You aren’t allowed to feel guilty anymore.”

“This isn’t about guilt. It’s about balancing the scales. I’ve got to make up for the wrong that my brother did in my family’s name. I can’t live with myself any other way. Please. Go. I’ll make sure you get out alive.” He stroked the side of her face. “I’m not a good man, Evangeline. I never should have let you get mixed up with me. And I never should have kissed you.”

“I wanted you to kiss me.” She rested her cheek against his palm, warm and dry. “I won’t do it. I won’t leave you. You can’t ask me to.”

“I’m not asking.” He stepped up to take her into his arms. Wrapped in the warmth of his body, the sour knot of grief that lived in her belly crept up her throat and released itself in quiet sobs. Her tears evaporated into the smooth, crisp cotton of his shirt. She let herself cry, let herself go. Let herself feel. Somewhere between the tears, she realized that this was how it felt to trust someone. This was how it felt to have a friend. She hadn’t had a friend in so very long. She hadn’t felt like she’d mattered to anyone on a personal level in a long time. But she did matter, here and now, to this beautiful, imperfect, troubled man who shared her grief and understood her pain.

He kissed the top of her head and wrapped his arms more tightly around her.

How she loved the way they fit together! His head rested on hers like it was born for it, and his broad, muscular chest was the perfect pillow for her cheek. She nestled deeper into his body and felt him exhale. He touched her forehead with his lips. The soft gesture of affection made her look up. His mouth parted, his eyes were half-dazed, and Evangeline had never seen a man so desperately in need of a kiss.

So before she had a moment to second-guess her instincts, she kissed him.

His mouth was warm, his lips were smooth, and his breath tasted like something she wanted to drink forever. It was a tumbler of whiskey, yes, but also the irresistible chemistry of him. It weakened her knees, and she heard herself moan. He responded by deepening the kiss, brushing his tongue against her lips. She opened her mouth and let him fill her senses, let their mouths become one. Their bodies pressed together, from chests to toes. Against her stomach she felt his rising desire. She pushed against him, wanting to touch him, wanting him to know, finally, how badly she wanted him.

He must have guessed, for he plunged his tongue into her mouth with primal fervor. Her knees gave out and she collapsed backward onto the bed, its pillows and blankets fluttering around her like startled redbirds. She wanted him to fall on top of her, but he didn’t. He stood, towering above her. She took his appraisal without flinching.

His brow knitted together. “You are so beautiful. Did you know that?”

“No. You’ll have to tell me again.” She sat up on the bed and wrapped her legs around his, pulling him closer.

“You are so beautiful,” he repeated. “You’re the only good thing in my world.”

“No, I’m not.” She began unbuttoning his shirt, loving how her heart quickened as she revealed his skin. He had a body in perfect balance, made by the hands of a divine sculptor. A body
meant to be touched.
“You
are in your world, too. And you’re the best thing I know.”

She laid her hands on his bare stomach, so firm under her fingertips. His skin was soft and she let her hands linger, rubbing gently, appreciating the feeling of hard muscles under his skin. She skimmed her hands up his back and dragged him closer. She pressed her nose into his warm flesh and inhaled.

The scent of his skin rolled her eyes into the back of her head. She wanted to lick him, to bite down. And so she did both, a lick and a bite, just slightly, on the little bit of skin just under his belly button. The kitten nip elicited a sharp intake of breath from him. He leaned away, giving her a remonstrative shake of his head.

He knelt down on the floor in front of her to unbutton her dress. Undone, the fabric fell away from her shoulders, exposing her navel. He pressed his face to her stomach, the stubble on his chin distinctively rough and masculine against the softness of her skin.

“I’m not good with this,” he said.

“With what?” She lifted herself up onto her elbows, giving him a grin. “So far, I beg to differ.”

“Thanks. I’m glad. But this—this isn’t just
this
for me. This is more. This is you and me. This is real.”

“It always was.”

“Not in the beginning. You didn’t know who I was.”

“Even then.” She reached for his hand. “I always knew you were a good guy. I just didn’t know you were such a damn hero.”

He tensed and shook his head. “I’ll fight for you tooth and nail, but I’m no hero.”

“Sure you are. But heroes never know they’re heroic. If they did, they wouldn’t be heroes. They’d be too full of themselves.”

His muscles relaxed under her touch. He smiled, and after stripping his pants free, he straddled her body with his long, lean legs. “Do heroes feel like they’d do anything to save the woman they love?”

“Seems to be a pattern.” She pressed her palms against those thighs she’d admired a dozen times before. They were, as she’d imagined they would be, like snakes under her hands, steady and strong. “Superman has Lois Lane. Spider-Man has Mary Jane.”

“And I’ve got you. Damn, it feels good to be a hero for you.”

She laughed, and he leaned forward, bringing the full length of his long, elegant body into full contact with hers.

He came up for air minutes later. “Do you need to know how I feel about you?”

“No.”

“Good.” His lips trailed down her throat. “I already told you I’m no good at talking about my feelings.”

“I remember. Twice.”

“That word’s too common, anyway.” He nudged his knee between her legs, spreading her thighs apart.

“Which? Feelings?” she said, breathless, waiting.

“No. Love. Maybe that’s the only word we have, but it’s not all there is between us. I need you to know that. As soon as I think of a better word, I’ll tell you. Until then,” he said, as he lowered himself and entered her gently, “love will have to do.”

He slid in, wider than she thought she could hold, but the feeling of impossible fullness only emphasized her acceptance of him, body and mind. She arched up, wanting more, and scraped at his back. She encouraged him deeper, slowly, until their hips met. Their oneness complete, she bonded with him in a way that went beyond sex, beyond words.

Her mouth melded to his, she rocked her hips in time with the rhythm of their tongues. He responded with delicious pulsing drives of his pelvis. Her body began to demand release. Eager, she reached down and grabbed one of his smooth, muscular cheeks with each hand. She pulled him into her, as far as he would fit, then out again. In, out, she showed him what she wanted.

He understood. She watched his hips undulate with sinuous agility, saw the afternoon sun shine on his smooth skin,
moistened with sweat. Over and over again, he slid himself out only to plunge back in, steady and sure. She lost track of where she ended and he began. Her mind wanted to follow her body to its climax, but she held off. When it ended, plans would have to be made. Reality would have to be faced. She stalled as long as she could, wanting to stay underneath him forever.

He began to tremble. His movements slowed. A bead of sweat formed on his brow and she kissed it away. He opened his radiant golden eyes. In them was a question.

“Yes,” she answered. She was ready.

With a deep sigh, he intensified his movements. His confident thrusts were perfection. The delicate friction focused and expanded until she fell into sensation, unaware of what touched where, only knowing that the powerful thing building within her could not be held off forever.

Then the climax came, arrived, flooded her senses. Her body opened up to meet it.

He had waited for her. When she cried out, he joined her. As every inch of her existence vibrated with unspeakable pleasure, he shuddered within her.

Then a sense of perfect unity as his body fell atop hers, both spent. Moments passed. Intensity ebbed. Satisfaction nestled in its place.

McCrea, his skin slick and hot, rolled away. Their fingers interlaced.

Oliver McCrea
. Her partner. Her lover. Her friend. She smiled and wondered if she would ever get around to calling him by his first name.

She grasped his face between her hands, his cheekbones solid under the tips of her fingers. He smiled, the muscles of his mouth pressing against her palms. She smiled, too, wanting to laugh with the joy of finally touching him without reservations or boundaries.